Lords of the Sky

by Angus Wells

  All this he told me in a low monotone that I recognized was a chain binding his grief. His dark eyes were expressionless, but as his voice tailed off, I saw tears run down his cheeks, leaving moist trails over his tan. He coughed and rubbed at his face. “Drach loaned me the coin to purchase the Dragon and new oarsmen,” he finished.

  I said, “I’m sorry,” and he grinned without humor and returned me, “Why? It was not your doing.”

  I shrugged, not knowing what else to say. And then I had a kind of revelation. I realized at that moment what I had not seen before—that I had become lost in my own grief, which was but a single small fish in a shoal of woes. It was arrogance and selfishness to think I swum alone: all around me there were folk had suffered as much or more, and to single out myself, to allow self-pity free rein, was a weakness, an act of egoism. I doubted Rwyan would approve. I vowed to set aside my own concerns and attend more carefully those of others.

  That night, in the room I shared with Drach, I slept soundly, and when I woke I felt enlivened, as I had not since Rwyan’s going. I would not forget Rwyan, but neither would I dwell any longer on her loss.

  Thus my journey passed far more enjoyably than I had anticipated. I practiced my storytelling on my fellow passengers and even the crew—Nyal was a kinder master than Kerym and treated his Changed oarsmen, if not as equals, then at least better than mere beasts—and studied the riparian landscape with eyes that seemed newly opened. When I thought of Rwyan (which was still often enough), it was with a sweetly fond nostalgia that was only sometimes pierced by the barbs of my dismissed grief. I had, I suppose, accepted what Cleton had told me: that our parting was inevitable and that to grieve over that which I could not change was a pointless scourge.

  And then we came to Arbryn.

  Thyrsk was aeldor here, and I had it from Nyal that he had but one son, Kalydon, and that his wife was dead of a fever these past three years. I knew no more, save that Arbryn prospered—which I could see from the pastel-painted houses and well-tended gardens—thanks to its advantageous position, being well-situated to handle trade from farther down the coast and the Treppanek, both. I thought it a pleasant, sleepy place that appeared untouched by the Sky Lords. The streets were clean, and I was greeted with cheerful cries as I walked toward the high stone tower that stood like the axle hub of a wheel at Arbryn’s center, behind its own wall, and showed no sign of attack.

  Four days I lingered there, wandering the town by day’s light, welcomed in the taverns and the squares where I told my stories, passing the evenings in Thyrsk’s hall. The hold’s sorcerer sent word to Durbrecht along that magical chain that connects the keeps of Dharbek, informing the College of my safe arrival, but what response, if any, came back, I know not. Storymen are governed by few orders, save to tell their tales and keep their eyes and ears open, and I was at liberty to choose my own path and my own timetable. It was a heady freedom.

  A side from the practice of our calling, there are three prime considerations about a Storyman’s life that seem seldom to occur to our listeners, who appear to believe we arrive by magic and depart by the same process.

  The first is the act of traveling itself. I was commanded to go from Arbryn to Mhorvyn before the year’s end; the how of it was left to me. I had one pair of stout boots, and save in heavy rain when my healed leg was wont to ache, I was fit as any soldier. The length of Kellambek, however, is a considerable distance, and the more time I spent traveling, the less I should have to speak and listen. I had some few coins, but insufficient to purchase a horse or a mule. I could hope to find passage with some merchant’s caravan or at some point to obtain a mount, but in the meanwhile I had only my feet.

  The second consideration is food. An empty belly makes for slow walking and a short temper. Indeed, it was not unknown for Storymen to starve in the wilder parts of Dharbek’s interior. I did not anticipate that fate, for my tales would earn me sustenance, and if they did not—well, this was a fertile landscape, and I could likely scavenge enough to see me through.

  Third is warmth: the road grows cold and wet at times. Indeed, this is why we wanderers were sent out at the year’s turning, when we might expect clement weather at the start of our journeying. I knew there should be rain along my way, but summer would come soon enough, and by winter I hoped to be ensconced in Mhorvyn Keep.

  Consequently, I set out from Arbryn in fine spirits. I had ventured to hope Thyrsk might gift me with a mount, but his generosity did not stretch quite so far, and I departed afoot. I thought that did I acquit myself well enough as I progressed, I might earn such a reputation as would persuade some aeldor to present me with a horse come the spring foaling. (Optimism is a necessary part of a Storyman’s nature; without it we should tread a very hard road.) It was a thing I could hope for, and meanwhile I had no complaints. I set out along the paved road that followed the coast south to Dunnysbar.

  I reached the village after nightfall, my arrival announced by a pack of dogs that came yapping at my heels. I applied my staff and my boots, being in no great good humor, and sent my attackers snarling into the shadows as I made my way toward the light of a hostlery. I was welcomed there and promised all the ale I could drink in return for a story or two, though I had to pay for my dinner and chose the free accommodation of the stables over the cost of a room.

  The next two nights I slept beside the road, warmed by a fire of fallen branches, fed the first on a rabbit I snared, hungry the second. The third night I found shelter in a farm, where I was fed and offered a place by the hearth, which I shared with four great shaggy dogs. Such is a Storyman’s lot.

  In Darsvyn Keep I found a welcome equal to that I got in Arbryn, and I lingered there five days. Ventran was a taciturn man, but his wife, Gwenndynne, more than made up for her husband’s solemnity, and their children—of whom there were five, and all young—took after her: I spent a large part of each evening in that keep with a child on either knee, another hung about my neck, and the rest at my feet. Ventran was of the College’s opinion—that the Sky Lords planned invasion. The keep’s sorcerer, a fair-haired young man from east Draggonek whose name was Tyris, agreed, and the four of us sat long into the night, discussing the Lord Protector’s preparations and what the year should bring.

  There was an alarming development of the Sky Lords’ magic.

  I first had the news from Kaern, aeldor of Dursbar, some eight weeks after leaving Arbryn. Spring was already turning into summer in these milder western climes, and I had been three days in Dursbar without news of Durbrecht or the east since my departure. I had dared hope the attacks of the previous year should not be repeated, that the gloomy prognostications of the College and of Kherbryn had been unfounded, that the Sky Lords had given up. I was wrong: only the tactics had changed.

  It was early one fine evening, the sun still bright on the slate rooftops of Dursbar, when I was invited to attend Kaern in his private chambers and found the aeldor with Trethyn, who was the commur-mage here. Kaern was a young man, come only recently to his station following the death of his father in a hunting accident. Trethyn was twice his age. Both were typical westcoasters: dark of hair and swarthy of complexion, their faces tending to a stern demeanor. On this bright evening they were both grim, and as Kaern motioned me to a chair and pushed a cup toward me, I felt the chill fingers of presentiment dance down my spine.

  “There’s news come from Durbrecht,” Kaern said as I filled my cup with the golden wine for which his hold was famous.

  In itself this was not surprising: the Sorcerous College acted as a gathering house for information, receiving and digesting reports from the keep sorcerers and disseminating that information throughout Dharbek. It was as if an unseen web spread over the land, every touch upon its fabric notified to Durbrecht, from whence news was sent along the magical strands to all the far-flung holds. From the sober faces of my two companions, however, and from the heavy tone of Kaern’s voice, I realized this news was grave. I swallowed wine and waited.
r />   “The Sky Lords are returned,” the aeldor said.

  I nodded, thinking that in this young man the taciturnity that appeared a natural characteristic of the westcoasters was somewhat magnified.

  He appeared disinclined to elaborate, and so I asked, “They attack again? In numbers?”

  Kaern shook his head and looked to Trethyn, gesturing that the sorcerer should answer.

  The commur-mage said, “No. This is different.”

  They shared a glance, as if, having summoned me, they now debated the wisdom of imparting their news. Or perhaps Kaern deferred to his commur-mage. I thought to encourage them. I asked, “How, different?”

  Trethyn stroked his gray-streaked beard and said, “They do not attack. At least, they have come only twice against Durbrecht; twice, too, against Kherbryn.”

  I frowned, curbing impatience even as I cursed their reticence. Had they been other than aeldor and commur-mage, I should have sought to draw them out with my Storyman’s guile. With such as these, however, it was not meet: I held my tongue and waited.

  Kaern said, “Neither city was much harmed.”

  Trethyn said, “The Sentinels destroyed half of each fleet and crippled more.”

  Kaern said, “Those that remained were all destroyed.”

  I smiled at that, nodding enthusiastically. I assumed they thought to reassure me. I wished they would get to the heart of the matter.

  “But,” said Trethyn, “the Sky Lords play a different game these days.”

  He reached for the decanter, filling his cup. Kaern sat silent, staring darkly at the sunlit rectangle of the window.

  I was chafed. I prompted him: “A different game?”

  He ducked his head once and said, “Yes. They’ve a new tactic, it seems.”

  He fell silent again. I looked from him to Kaern, willing them to loose their tight westcoaster tongues. It seemed a long time before he continued. I was tempted to shake the words from him.

  At last he said, “They employ smaller vessels. Skyboats a fraction the size of their usual craft.”

  I could contain my impatience no longer. I said, “Surely then they’re a lesser threat. Save they bring the Kho’rabi knights in numbers, how can they hope to conquer us?”

  It was Kaern who answered. I think my tone or my expression roused him from his silence, but still he spoke obliquely. He said, “Was it not the belief of both your College and Trethyn’s that the attacks of these past years were in the nature of scouting missions?”

  There was a new—and somewhat unexpected—authority in his voice: I nodded and answered him, “Yes. We suspected they sought to test our defenses. We thought they must probe, readying for the Great Coming.”

  The aeldor snorted bitter laughter. He looked no longer out the window but directly into my eyes as he said, “I’ve some training in the art of warfare, and I’d not send centuries of men out scouting. That’s a task for a few, light-mounted to travel fast, unnoticed.”

  I began to see it. I said, “Small airboats …”

  Kaern nodded agreement. “Small and swift; enough they are able, often as not, to slip unharmed past the Sentinels.”

  “And return word of what they find?” I gasped. “We’d suspected they’d found such magic as to send word back.”

  Now it was my turn to fall silent as Trethyn said, “Worse. They’d found those magicks, yes. But none too reliable over such distances; also, we’d found the way to block their messages, to disrupt them.”

  “Then how,” I asked carefully, aware that my voice came hollow with dread, “is this worse?”

  The sorcerer ran nails that I noticed for the first time were chewed down and grimed with dirt through his beard before he answered. Then: “They’ve found the means to entirely control the elementals. Thus to overcome the Worldwinds.”

  I gaped, horrified. Into my mind came a precise memory of those half-seen creatures I had observed sporting about the Sky Lords’ vessels. I had thought then that they propelled the airboats, that their fundamental power was bound to the Aim’s cause. I had never suspected, never anticipated, they might overcome the Worldwinds. None had. Forgetting all protocol, ignoring all courtesy, I motioned for the sorcerer to continue.

  If he noticed my imperious gesture, he paid it no heed. He said, “These smaller boats are able to come and return at will.”

  This was alarming news. “And the Sentinels?” I cried. “The Sorcerous College? Can they not halt these boats? Not destroy them?”

  “Some few,” he replied. “Not enough. The road our magic took is different—we Dhar have never attempted to control the elemental spirits.”

  An old memory, tucked away in one of those compartments dead Mairtus had spoken of, sprang into my mind. I said, “We once mastered the dragons.”

  “Once, yes,” said Trethyn. “But the dragons were creatures of flesh and blood, and thus the Dragonmasters were able to attune their minds to the creatures’. The spirits of the air are different—we’ve no control of them.”

  “Why speak of dragons?” Kaern asked. “The dragons are dead, and the Dragonmasters with them. This danger belongs to this day, and to our tomorrows.”

  Trethyn grunted his agreement. I shrugged: they were right. What use to think of dragons now, here? I said, “Does Durbrecht anticipate invasion then?”

  The sorcerer turned his face to the aeldor. Kaern said formally, as if by rote, “The Lord Protector Gahan bids us stand ready. We cannot know how strong this new magic waxes, but do they learn to harness the spirits in numbers …” He paused, his eyes closing a moment, as if what he told me sat heavy on his tongue and he had rather not say it. “It is thought the Sky Lords shall attack this year or next.”

  Trethyn said, “The Sorcerous College believes it will be next year at the earliest.”

  I said, “But if they are able to ignore the Worldwinds … If they can evade the magic of the Sentinels—”

  He silenced me with a raised hand. “As yet—so we believe—this newfound power over the elementals is not strong enough they can harness the spirits in sufficient numbers to their larger vessels. At least, not in such numbers as to make invasion feasible.”

  “Yet,” said Kaern. His voice was as bleak as his face.

  I said, “Then we’ve a year to ready for war. Shall you sorcerers not find a means to defeat even the elementals?”

  Trethyn shook his head. Amidst the gray and black of his beard, I saw stained teeth bared in a sour grin. He said, “Within a year? No. It’s our belief the Sky Lords have spent decades—perhaps centuries—finding the gramaryes of binding. Have you any idea what such magic entails?”

  I shook my head. I felt dulled; helpless. I thought abruptly of Rwyan. I heard Trethyn saying, “… inconceivable power. We’d need revise all our thinking, all we’ve learned.”

  I nodded. It seemed the skin was drawn taut over the bones of my face. My mouth was dry: I filled my empty cup and drank deep.

  In the wine I found a straw of hope and snatched it. I said, “It would not be the first Coming. We’ve defeated the Sky Lords before. Shall this be so different?”

  Trethyn took the straw from me and broke it. “Mightily different,” he said. “Before, they traveled on the whim of the Worldwinds. Oh, they harnessed the spirits of the air to aid them, but not even with that assistance could they entirely defy the winds. Did your College not teach you that?”

  There was such asperity in his voice as to offend, had I not recognized it was fear that honed the edge. I nodded and said, “Yes, I was taught that.”

  And I was: the Comings followed the cycles of the Worldwinds, and that gusting was capricious. Not all the Sky Lords’ dread craft reached our shores—many soared too high, to drift on across the western ocean into oblivion, more were brought down by the Sentinels. Sufficient grounded as to be a blight, to render the Sky Lords a terror, and the Kho’rabi warriors were creatures out of nightmare—but never enough of them to accomplish their dream of conquest. And we Dhar h
ad, each time, that cycle of recuperation, of preparation: when the Worldwinds turned again, we were always ready. Now, did the Ahn wizards obtain such power over the elementals as to come and go at will, they could deliver the Kho’rabi at any time, and their airboats return to their far-off land to bring more against us. More and more and more, until—I endeavored to deny the thought, but could not—until they conquered us. I shuddered and said softly, “I see it.”

  “It is not a pleasant vision,” said Trethyn, no louder.

  “This is not,” Kaern said, “a thing to voice abroad. The God willing, we’ll not see these new airboats so far west. Until the time comes, the common folk are not to know.”

  “Shall you not prepare?” I asked: the aeldor was not alone in owning some knowledge of strategy. “How shall you hide it, must you raise levies?”

  He grunted acceptance of my judgment and said, “We aeldors enlarge our warbands and commission ships. Yes—we prepare. But until we are sure, I’d not see panic spread.”

  To this Trethyn added, “There are already refugees come west to escape the attacks of yesteryear. Should such news become common parlance, likely the cities and the east would be deserted.”

  “And your resources be strained,” I said. Then: “You expect the fighting to be in the east.”

  “And the cities,” said Kaern. “Do the Sky Lords fight a sensible war, they’ll seek to overcome three centers first—the Sentinels, Durbrecht, and Kherbryn. Take those, and Dharbek fights in disarray.”

  Rwyan! The cold fingers I had felt on entering this room became claws, scoring my soul. I could only duck my head, horrified. I was helpless. I could do nothing, save hope; or pray to a God I was no longer sure existed.

  “This goes no farther,” said the aeldor, formal again. “It is deemed necessary to inform you Storymen, but none others.”